


Easy

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [17]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Apologies, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Claiming, Comfort, Competition, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Dom/sub, Dominance, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Sex, Emotional confessions, Fluffy Ending, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, I am a gremlin and I do what I want, Kissing, Light Bondage, M/M, Neck Kissing, Possessive Hank Anderson, Possessive Sex, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Submission, Teasing, Top Hank Anderson, delayed gratification, sex denial, very necessary descriptions of giving hickeys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “We had a deal,” Anderson drops the words slowly, carefully, into Connor’s ear, “and you haven’t asked me nicely yet.”“Sonuvabitch!” Connor attempts to thrust himself down on Anderson’s dick, but Anderson’s huge hands pin him in place. He’d been so close and then hismouthhad gotten the better of him.--In which Connor stumbles upon one of Anderson's slight insecurities by accident.--This is part of an ongoing D/s series. Heed the tags.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Brat Tamer [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472171
Comments: 16
Kudos: 196





	Easy

Connor is pretty certain life would be easier if he could learn to keep his mouth shut. It’d be a hell of a lot less sexy but easier all the same. He wouldn’t be waking up with a raging hard-on for the fourth day in a row, for example, with no end to his torment insight.

As if hearing his thoughts, Anderson’s fingers dance under the sheets to stroke him lightly, “Good morning.” There’s a note of sarcasm lurking in the purred words and Connor firmly turns his back to his fiancé.

Anderson chuckles. It’s maddening.

“Still playing hard to get?” Anderson presses a kiss to Connor’s exposed shoulder but the bed shifts shortly after. Anderson rises to stretch away the last vestiges of sleep.

“I’m not playing anything,” Connor tries to spit the words but they sound petulant even to him.

The closet glides open and Anderson fingers at the material of a button-down. Connor rolls his eyes. Anderson thinks he’s so smart, picking Connor’s favorite outfits, making him imagine Anderson rolling up the sleeves or unzipping his fly. Watching those powerful hands push buttons through holes like Connor isn’t thinking about those same fingers fisting into his hair and shoving Anderson’s cock down his throa— _goddammit._

It really is that easy to manipulate a sex-starved Connor and Anderson knows it. All he has to do is get dressed.

 _Great_ , Connor thinks to himself. _I’m fucked._ Or, he would be if he could ever learn to shut up. Or swallow his pride. One of the two.

The conversation had started innocently enough. Connor had been reading Anderson an article about scientists attempting to teach robots delayed gratification. So far, the results had been a dismal failure, as the AI had no basis for the concept. It understood waiting or not waiting based on certain parameters, but it defaulted to what it perceived as the scientist’s desired outcome.

“Ha, they should interview me,” Connor had snickered until Anderson’s silence became irritating. Looking up at his fiancé, he could see a faint smile and quirked brow.

“What?” Connor had blurted out, ready to argue—about what, he wasn’t really sure.

“Nothing,” Anderson murmured, folding his newspaper in half to read it better. “It’s interesting that you think you’re an authority on the subject, though.”

Connor had never bristled faster in all his life. Of all people, Anderson should be well aware of Connor’s ability to _wait_. He left Connor on the edge of release constantly.

“You know I am,” Connor folded his arms, scouring Anderson’s profile for acknowledgment.

Anderson shrugged, “That has not been my experience.”

Connor puffed and fluffed like an angry hen, “I beg to differ, Hank.” The tone he’d adopted hadn’t been a wise one, but Connor’s irritation had grown with each moment Anderson disagreed. He didn’t need Anderson’s validation on this matter so much as he _knew_ he was right.

Anderson rose and cupped Connor under the chin. He leaned down as if to kiss him but he pressed deep into Connor’s space, imprinting Connor’s form into the recliner.

His lips moved like silk against Connor’s ear, “So do it then. Prove it.”

“What?” The question left Connor’s chest on a dry exhale over parched lips.

Anderson’s beard scraped against Connor’s jaw as he smiled, “Beg.”

Anderson’s big palm pushed him further into the chair as he rumbled, “Beg me to fuck you and we’ll see who gives in first.” It was a dirty, rotten trick that shot straight to Connor’s dick.

Connor glared up at him, fuming at himself for walking straight into this trap, “You think you’re so clever.”

Anderson’s lips moved over Connor’s in answer with a honeying kiss before he finally pulled away, granting Connor enough room to breathe.

“Sweetheart,” he sat back down and shuffled through his newspaper, searching for the crossword, “between the two of us, we both know who has more restraint.”

So here he is, day four of an indeterminable number of days, and feeling no less stubborn on the matter. He isn’t going to beg for cock. _He isn’t_. Anderson has needs, too. He knows he’ll never beat Anderson at his own game, but he’s hoping for a draw. If he can outlast Anderson’s patience, they might be able to come to a mutually acceptable stalemate.

By the end of the week, that hope is looking a great deal more likely than Connor expected. Anderson doesn’t shrug him off with a teasing remark when he leans over him from behind the couch to kiss him in greeting. They’d spent the workday in separate labs and hadn’t seen each other since morning. Anderson loops their fingers, pulling Connor around the arm of the sofa before yanking him into his lap.

Connor exhales a laugh, relaxing more than he has in days. Tender fondness blooms readily at the display of casual intimacy and Connor presses his face into Anderson’s neck. He smells smoky like he’s been grilling but Connor knows it’s just fried electronic parts from a failed lab experiment. The students were taking on finicky work and mistakes could prove concussive. Still, the familiar smell that is uniquely _Anderson_ lingers beneath it and Connor inhales deeply to get to it.

The kiss takes him by surprise. It’s hungry and demanding with the barest hint of control. Anderson doesn’t devour him, but Connor feels consumed by it all the same. Throbbing, unmet need courses through his veins and his fingers find Anderson’s hair without thinking.

Still, no gentle rebuke comes. Anderson returns the kiss with his patented, searing touch. Connor drinks in Anderson’s affection, drunk on his attention. Even though it’s only been days, it feels like it’s been years since he’s been kissed like this—like Connor is a delicacy Anderson’s been reserving for a special occasion.

He doesn’t remember moving, but Connor finds himself straddling Anderson’s thick thighs, rutting down against him. They rarely went so long without sex and Connor’s fairly certain he could get off from this mild amount of contact if he kept it up.

“I want you,” he whispers the words like they’re a secret and Anderson growls a primal sound in response before latching onto Connor’s throat to claim it.

It’s the wanton, breathy exhaled _Sir_ that undoes them. Connor hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t wanted to give Anderson the satisfaction while they carried out their mutually destructive show of patience and restraint. Connor had been clipped and cold all week and not at all his usual self.

One possessive display from Anderson unravels his façade, “Sir, please, _do it again_.” He’ll likely be wearing a turtleneck for days as the marks fade, but he’s beyond carrying. Anderson’s lips on his neck, his tongue tracing his throbbing pulse, his teeth accosting the thin, sensitive skin—it’s heady and Connor yearns for more.

Anderson rises, half-dragging, half-carrying Connor with him. He bites at Connor’s bottom lip before releasing it to growl, “‘ _Do it again_.’ You absolute menace.” Connor smiles and it’s a soft thing. Some of the tense ferocity of Anderson’s lust tempers at the expression. The least he can do is tear Connor apart on a comfortable mattress rather than right here on the living room floor.

Squeezing at a generous portion of Connor’s ass through his work slacks, Anderson hip checks him toward the hall, “Bedroom.”

Connor’s undressed by the time Anderson loosens his tie. He gives Connor a gentle shove and Connor’s arms rise on instinct when his back hits the mattress. Anderson loops the tie around Connor’s wrists and fixes it in an intricate knot around the headboard railing. It’s simple, but he’s not in the mood for fancy bindings. He wants Connor _now._ He wants to watch him swell to the brink of shattering, hear him moan and scream. He wants to fuck Connor so hard and good and deep that he forgets any other that came before him.

It hadn’t been a bad day at work so much as a vexing one. His students this year weren’t the brightest. Even Connor had counseled a few on switching core studies to avoid complete chaos in the lab. There had only been one meltdown today, but any fire in the workplace triggered a mountain of paperwork. Anderson had spent his office hours and most of his lunch hour dealing with the administrative side of his students’ blundering. He’s more than ready to release his frustration and Connor was always a willing vessel to that end.

He’s rougher and more rushed tonight than usual. He wants Connor loose and ready; if Anderson’s fingers jamming into Connor’s mouth takes him by surprise, so be it.

Connor recovers well enough, understanding what Anderson’s after. His tongue laves and sucks until Anderson reaches some unspoken level of approval with the amount of saliva on his hand. He prods and sinks the first finger two knuckles deep into Connor’s hole as he paws blindly in the bedside drawer for better lubrication. It drizzles messily, squelching in a lewd, satisfying way as he sinks in a second finger.

Connor’s body accepts the intrusion easily, hungrily and Anderson’s pupils grow wide and dark at the sight. Connor recognizes the look and white-hot lust surges through his dick. It twitches and beads at the tip in anticipation.

He can’t help but tease. Goading Anderson in this state always yielded a devastating, deeply satisfying fuck, “So much for your _restraint_.” Connor wouldn’t be surprised if he sprouted whiskers with how supremely pleased he is with himself. Cat getting the cream, indeed.

Anderson freezes and Connor wishes he could suck the words back into his stupid mouth. Anderson _had_ forgotten and Connor had just gone and reminded him. The smile that spreads across Anderson’s face spells certain doom.

“Impatient, are we?” Anderson’s fingers curl sinfully inside him and Connor arches into the sensation. His body undulates in time with waves of pleasure as Anderson strokes and prods him to the edge of sanity.

Still, he isn’t ready to back down.

“Can’t you just admit that I’m good at delayed gratification?” He pants out the words, rough and loud. Connor doesn’t really know why he’s sticking so hard to the subject, but he won’t admit defeat—not when Anderson had all but given him the victory already.

“Hmm,” Anderson hums against Connor’s throat, nudging the head of his cock against Connor’s teased and twitching hole, “I’ll grant you this much— _you are good_.”

Connor’s heart squeezes and a groan wrenches from his chest when Anderson uses that moment to sink into him a few critical inches.

“Sir—What. Are. You. Doing?” Each word comes out raw with need as Anderson rolls his hips in bare fractions of an inch. The head of his cock drags over Connor’s prostate in strokes that are so short and gentle, they’re cruel. His bones are going to explode from his skin if Anderson doesn’t give him more than that and soon.

“We had a deal,” Anderson drops the words slowly, carefully, into Connor’s ear, “and you haven’t asked me _nicely_ yet.”

“ _Sonuvabitch!_ ” Connor attempts to thrust himself down on Anderson’s dick, but Anderson’s huge hands pin him in place. He’d been so close and then his _mouth_ had gotten the better of him.

Anderson’s fingers burn into him like a brand and he’s abruptly impaled over and over in rapid succession on Anderson’s formidable cock, “Ask me nicely.” All Connor can do is try to maintain his sanity as sensation batters his prostate without warning.

Anderson releases Connor’s waist in favor of gripping his ankles and bending him in half. Connor moans something incoherent and Anderson grins, resuming his brutal thrusts, “Ask me to ruin you for anyone else.”

When Anderson’s fingers find Connor’s dick to pump it in time with his hips, Connor’s vision erupts in stars. It’s a fight to form intelligible words but he manages to get out a response between shrieks, _Don’t want anyone else._

“Good,” Anderson’s voice drips with something dark and possessive and Connor turns his face toward it.

Anderson’s mouth mauls his before Anderson pulls away to whisper with desperate intensity, “Ask me.”

Anderson’s hips slow but they don’t stop. His grip on Connor’s dick is less intense, but still present. Connor knows Anderson needs this—needs Connor to submit, to allow Anderson to claim him without challenge.

All of his reasons for their ridiculous pissing contest disappear under the weight of the emotion of those two telling words. It’s a delicate balancing act, but Connor knows they’re on an even scale.

“Don’t stop,” it’s a quiet request but he knows Anderson hears him. Anderson’s hips jackhammer against him and Connor screams at a pitch he didn’t think possible. He alternates between shrieks and whimpers as Anderson pummels him and reshapes him. He feels dangerously close to shattering when a husky, mumbled _I love you_ reaches him through the chaos unraveling in their bedroom.

It’s unexpected and it winds around Connor until he bursts in ropes of sticky white release. It paints his belly and chest, coating Anderson’s hand as he milks him through the last of it. Anderson thrusts into him once, twice more before collapsing with an abrupt grunt.

He stays there for so long, Connor is briefly concerned Anderson passed out, “Hank?”

Anderson mumbles a few sounds that are definitely not words and Connor’s chest stutters in the imitation of a laugh he doesn’t have the energy for, “Untie me.”

Anderson’s hand paws at Connor’s face before working its way up his arms to his wrists. A few tugs untangle the tie but he gives no indication of moving anytime soon.

“Are you going to let me up?” Connor pokes at Anderson’s side, but Anderson merely shuffles into a more comfortable position as his spent dick slips wetly to Connor’s inner thigh.

“Mine,” he grumbles before taking a mock bite out of Connor’s shoulder.

Connor sighs in amusement, not worrying about the mess they’re lying in. Anderson rarely expressed his needs in this way and Connor isn’t going to brush aside what just happened in a flurry of cleaning up.

“Yours,” he agrees. “But you’re quite heavy and I can’t feel my legs.”

Anderson flops off him with comical tiredness and Connor places a tentative hand on Anderson’s belly, “You ok?”

“Yeah,” he groans through a stretch before pulling Connor closer. “Just a long, very annoying day after a long, very frustrating week.”

Connor resists the urge to make the easy jab about self-control.

Anderson doesn’t, “Looks like we have a first for the books. You win.”

Unease settles in Connor’s gut. He didn’t like how the last week had gone down. Their sex life isn’t a competition and Anderson has a hard enough time expressing his feelings as it is. Connor doesn’t want him sulking over sex battles, imagined or otherwise.

Connor runs his fingers through Anderson’s hair, watching him with warm brown eyes, “Who’s keeping score?”

“A big, dumb idiot you’re going to marry, apparently,” Anderson grumbles, but there’s no heat to his words. He runs a hand over his face, "'M sorry I've been acting like an ass all week over nothing."

“ _My_ big, dumb idiot,” Connor corrects. “And stop that. I don’t need little tally marks adding up our sex life.”

He kisses Anderson’s cheeks and waits. A faint smile touches Anderson’s features and tension eases from his shoulders. He pulls Connor close, wrapping around him in a protective embrace. Connor can’t see Anderson’s face, but he doesn’t need to. He knows Anderson’s sincere when he murmurs, “You are a treasure” into his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


End file.
